Second Marriage with a Loving Enemy

Episode 2

Barbarians. That’s what the Empire called them.

Unlike the Lekeon people, who developed a sophisticated culture from the wealth of their fertile lands and vast colonies, the nomads of the northeastern steppes led a much simpler life.

The land was too barren for farming, forcing them to rely on herding and hunting. They trained both boys and girls in martial arts, and it was customary for one woman to marry several men.

The people of the Empire spoke of them with contempt. They claimed that, due to polyandry, the biological fathers of children were often unclear, there were no fixed family names, and there were even siblings of mixed parentage intermarried.

They were described as savages who wore smelly animal skins instead of cotton or silk, had swollen gums from unbrushed teeth, and walked around with messy, unkempt hair, regardless of age or gender.

Such stories, exaggerated or not, were enough to fuel the Empire’s hatred and fear of the northeastern nomads.

Perhaps the more fearful you are, the deeper your hatred

becomes, Lentia thought.

The northeastern nomads were the only group that the conquering monarchs of Lekeon had never subdued. They remained a mystery to the Empire, and that mystery provoked a strong antipathy, rooted as much in ignorance as in fear.

Lentia herself had thought she’d never encounter them.

You’re in the heart of the Empire. They’re on the distant steppes. There will be no contact, she had once assured herself.

Like Lentia, the rest of the Empire clung to this happy illusion.

Little did they know, the nomadic tribes of the northeast had been banding together under one massive flag, united by a single leader.

The name of the man who raised that flag was Kirta, a young general from the northeast—only twenty-five years old.

Having consolidated his hold on the northeastern steppes, Kirta turned his attention towards southwest. His eyes were on the Empire, its wealth, and its advanced culture. He sought interaction—not war—for the sake of his people.

While Kirta loved the vast grasslands of his homeland, he knew

that confining his people to such a barren land would only hinder their future.

In contrast, the Empire’s fertile lands teemed with life, its population growing day by day. Its literature, art, and technology far surpassed anything that Kirta’s people had ever known.

Kirta was not too proud to acknowledge this superiority. Bowing to the inevitable, he sought to learn from the Empire.

He sent a delegation to the northeastern border of Lekeon. These emissaries, fluent in the Imperial language, approached the border lords, bearing gifts of precious leather and minerals from the plains.

They crossed the border unarmed to emphasize their peaceful intent.

But when the soldiers of the Empire found them, they slaughtered the men, stole their gifts, and raped the women before beheading them.

The survivors who managed to escape returned to their tribes and reported the atrocity to Kirta.

Upon hearing the news, Kirta did not hesitate. While he was a

monarch who disdained unnecessary pride, he also upheld the sacred duty to avenge his people.

The nomadic tribes of the northeast followed a strict code: kindness was repaid sevenfold, an enemy’s wrong twelvefold, and treachery twentyfold.

This principle was deeply ingrained in their kinship-centered culture.

The Empire had drawn first blood, and Kirta saw no reason to hold back.

He raised an army, and soon, the barbarian forces—long whispered of in horror stories—descended upon the Empire.

Castles fell one after another. Villages were reduced to ashes.

Though Kirta’s men spared unarmed children and women, Imperial soldiers who took up arms were slaughtered mercilessly.

When news of the carnage reached the Emperor, he was paralyzed with fear.

Unlike the young barbarian leader, the Emperor had no sense of honor.

“I leave it to you, Empress,” he stammered. “I must preserve the imperial line! If I die, there will be no successor. You understand, don’t you? You’re capable—you’ll manage the capital.”

Lentia swallowed her rage. She might have killed the Emperor for such cowardice, had she not possessed her signature composure.

Rather than wasting her energy persuading the trembling fool, Lentia focused on preparing for the future.

She organized the evacuation of the Emperor and the capital’s people, personally ensuring that supplies and safe routes were arranged. Relief supplies were prepared for refugees fleeing the invaded regions.

Then, she sent a brave messenger to parley with Kirta’s army.

Her younger brother, Lucnell Paolin, volunteered for the task. Noble and courageous like his sister, Lucnell rode to the barbarian encampment unarmed.

Dismounting and kneeling before Kirta, he conveyed Lentia’s message:

“The Empress of the Lekeon Empire addresses the great Kirta. She wishes to personally seek forgiveness for the Empire’s crimes

against your people. She implores you to stay your wrath and meet her in the capital.”

It was a calculated move. The barbarian army was rumored to spare the unarmed. Lucnell, taking no chances, had discarded his sword and approached humbly, just as his sister had advised.

Lentia’s strategy was clear: to appeal to reason and justice, and to prevent further bloodshed.

Kirta, surprisingly, accepted the gesture.

“It is fortunate,” he said, smiling faintly, “that we were already heading to the capital. Your Empress is truly wise to send such a respectful guide and extend this invitation to me.”

Lucnell, still kneeling, flinched. Kirta’s voice was unexpectedly gentle—far from the blood-soaked image of a barbarian general.

But Kirta was not done.

“Is this all the Empress has to say?” he asked.

“Pardon?” Lucnell replied.

“Where is your Emperor? As I understand it, the Emperor outranks

the Empress. What is he doing while your Empress sends messengers on his behalf?”

Lucnell winced, unsure if Kirta was mocking him or genuinely unaware. Reluctantly, he confessed:

“The Emperor… has fled west.”

Kirta’s eyes widened in surprise. Then, to Lucnell’s dismay, he threw back his head and laughed—a pure, boyish laugh.

“Ha! So, the Emperor abandoned his people, and it falls to the Empress to save them!”

Lucnell remained silent, his heart pounding. Kirta’s laughter was not comforting—it was terrifying.

In this surreal moment, amid the scent of blood and the tension of war, the barbarian king laughed like a child who had just heard a delightful joke.

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